


Letters to a Girl Who Loved Birds

by backinyourbox



Series: Raindrops on Roses [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backinyourbox/pseuds/backinyourbox
Summary: When Augusta Longbottom passes away at the ripe old age of 120, Neville finds the letters she kept, and left behind.





	Letters to a Girl Who Loved Birds

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the Raindrops on Roses Universe, which relates mainly to Neville's children and grandchildren, however that story is not required reading for this one, and there are only minor spoilers to do with relationships.

  


There was a knock on the door to the Headmaster’s office at six o’clock. Neville looked up from the parchment he was reading, and glanced to one side at the clear glass paperweight that was holding down a haphazard pile of documents on the desk. White mist swirled for a moment inside it before spidery black lettering spelled out a name under its surface : _Frank Potter._ Right on time.

He waved a hand at the door, and it opened obediently without the need for an incantation or, come to that, any actual deliberate magic; the castle tended to know what he was after and most of the time it was happy to oblige him. “Come on in, Frankie,” he called, putting his work to one side with some relief. A gangly, green-eyed fourteen-year-old stepped into the office, wearing a neat school uniform with a Ravenclaw badge pinned to his sleeve and looking just a little nervous.

“Er… is this an official meeting, sir?” he asked, his voice still a little on the strangled side, a boy’s voice on the brink of breaking. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“Should you be?” Neville asked, raising an eyebrow. The boy’s faux-innocent expression reminded him of Harry more than anything else, but then Harry was Frankie’s grandfather, too. “No, it’s not official,” he said, smiling. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Come and sit down.”

The squashy armchairs in front of the desk were left over from Dumbledore’s days as Headmaster, and since somehow the cushions never got worn or thin, Neville had never felt the need to change them. Frankie sat in one now, tucking his too-long legs to one side as he tried to get comfortable. It was a teenage stage that Neville didn’t remember having gone through; _he’d_ gone from short and pudgy and boy-faced to average-looking, cardigan-wearing Herbology nerd overnight, as far as he remembered. “So, how are you feeling?” Neville asked, passing a heaped plate of biscuits across the desk. The House Elves had been sending him endless biscuits for days now, and he was in danger of ruining all his meals.

“I’m okay,” Frankie nodded, solemnly, and took a biscuit. “What about you? Mum said you’d be sad for a while, and we had to look after you.”

Neville sighed inwardly. Lizzie was altogether too much like her mother these days. Worrying over him. “Yes, well. Your mum would say that, but I’ll be all right, Frankie.” He took a biscuit for himself but stopped short of actually putting it to his mouth, turning it over in his fingers instead. “She was very old, you know.”

“Hunnerd and twenty,” Frankie nodded, around a mouth full of biscuit. “That’s pretty old, but not as old as like, Dumbledore.” He pointed behind Neville’s shoulder to the portrait of his father’s namesake, blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “And she raised you, so it’s like she was your mum, really. That’s what mum said, so that’s pretty sad.”

“Well,” Neville said, after a moment’s somber consideration. “I suppose that’s true.”

He put the biscuit aside, reached into the large drawer under the desk, and pulled out a wooden box rather like a small treasure chest, with smoothed round edges and an intricate carving of a robin etched into its surface. “Here. I want to show you something.” He pushed back the lid and, with care, removed a parcel of letters.

Frankie leaned forward with keen interest. “Are those Gran’s things?” he asked, meaning Augusta. All of Neville’s children and grandchildren referred to her that way, though in fact she had been Frankie’s great-great-grandmother, the proud matriarch of a long and expanding line of Longbottoms.

“Yes. The important things, that is - what isn’t in the vault. It’s mostly letters and some photos.” He picked out one of the oldest pictures and handed it over; Frankie took it carefully between his fingers. It showed a solemn-looking couple on their wedding day. It was a wizarding photograph, but the couple were standing quite still; only the leaves on the tree behind them fluttered a little in the breeze, and their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

“Is that Gran and her husband?” Frankie asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Neville nodded. “My grandfather, Cornelius Longbottom.”

“Did you ever know him?”

Neville nodded slowly. The memories were long-ago and faded, but he had revisited them several times over the last few days, trying to remember the small details. “Just a little,” he said finally.

Frankie studied the photo closely. “How did he die?”

“Oh, he was ill for a while, I think. I remember he used to spend all day sitting in an armchair in the upstairs sitting room, and I’d sneak up there to sit with him and he’d tell me stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“About his exploits as a young man, I suppose. I remember thinking he was very brave, always in and out of the Muggle world, travelling… Gran never liked it, she didn’t want me bothering him, but he was always pleased to see me, I think. Then one day I was sitting in his lap, and he fell asleep. I didn’t realise he had died until Gran found me trying to wake him up.”

Frankie shuddered. “Creepy.”

Neville’s lips twitched. It wasn’t funny, of course. Once upon a time he would have called it one of his worst memories. But he had seen many more deaths since then, too many, and if he had the choice personally, he would much prefer falling asleep in his favourite chair, in his own home, to most of the alternatives. Even if his Gran had been furious with him, at the time, and he hadn’t understood why. That was what had frightened him more than anything else; the shouting. He’d been afraid that she thought it was his fault, but he hadn’t dared ask, not for the next seventy odd years.

He looked down at the bundle of letters he had set aside. He hadn’t quite brought himself to look through them yet, feeling a strange sense of wrongness in breaching that particular privacy, though there was no one left alive who could mind. So far he had glanced only briefly at the return addresses. Some of the more recent were letters he himself had sent Augusta over the years. Some from friends. Some, the oldest, were from her parents, whom he had never met. The ones that both tempted and unnerved him the most were signed ‘ _your son, Frank’._ Oddly though, there didn’t seem to be any from Cornelius at all.

He put them back in the box. “Here,” he said, pulling out a final object. It was a ring, large enough for a man’s finger, a wide silver band embossed with a coat of arms in minute detail.

“What is it?” Frankie asked, taking it with just as much care as he had handled the photograph. Frankie had a curiosity for history that Neville certainly hadn’t had at his age. It didn’t even have to be the exciting sort of history either; kings and battles or dark wizards. Frankie just liked stories. His bookshelf at home was an eclectic mix of muggle and wizarding texts, biographies, and memoirs, and was already threatening to encroach on the hallway.

“It’s a family ring,” Neville explained. “A lot of the old families have them, and some of the less ancient ones that like to think themselves important enough. Usually it’s the patriarch that wears them; the oldest wizard in the family.”

“Wouldn't that be you then, Granddad?” Frankie said, cheekily, turning the ring over in his fingers, squinting to see the detail.

“Har har.” Neville scratched his beard. Technically he supposed he was a patriarch now, but he didn’t feel like one, grandchildren notwithstanding. Where had the last seventy years gone, he would have liked to know. Even the chair he was sitting in felt wrong sometimes, as though he had snuck into the office and started playing at being headmaster, and no one had realised yet that he didn’t belong there. “Actually,” he said, bringing himself back to Frankie’s question, “it’s not the Longbottom ring. I’ve got that one stuck at the back of a drawer somewhere, and I suppose Tony can have it one day if it ever shows up.”

Frankie made a face, presumably at this disrespect for historical artefacts. “Whose is it then?” he asked, curiously.

“It belonged to a family that doesn’t really exist anymore, I suppose. It’s the Lunden crest. It belonged to my great-grandfather Anders Lunden, who was the last male in the line. He would have passed it on to his oldest son, but he only ever had a daughter.”

“Oh.” Frankie nodded, understand. “So Gran was Augusta Lunden, but when she married your Granddad she became a Longbottom, and there weren’t any more Lundens?”

“Well,” Neville smiled. “Not by name, anyway. By blood we’re both Lundens, even if hardly anyone remembers the name. Gran must have held onto the ring, anyway, after her father died.”

“Brilliant,” Frankie breathed, eyes afire with interest.

“Thought you might like that. Why don’t you look after it for me, eh?”

The boy looked up at him, surprised. “Really? But it’s yours…”

“I don’t have any use for it. There are so many bits and pieces; I think she would have wanted you to have something. She loved you very much, you know, even if she didn’t show it very often. That was just her way.”

Frankie let out a little breath of surprise, and Neville tried not to notice as he blinked away sudden tears. “I’ll look after it, I promise,” he said, shakily.

“I know you will. Someone might as well pass on that bit of history. Though I wouldn’t wear it to any society parties, in case people think you’re trying to denounce the Potter name.”

Frankie sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Oh yes, those society parties my calendar is just full of during school holidays.” He turned the ring over in his hands again. “Do you know anything else about the Lundens? What were Gran’s grandparents’ names?”

His grandfather smiled at him. “I don’t know, I’m afraid. I expect it’s all written down somewhere, if you’re interested in a research project.”

“Oh.” His eyes lit up again and he beamed. “Yes, I guess I could do that. And I’d like to know more about Cornelius, too… it sounds interesting.”

“Frankie my boy, if there was ever a Potter to be sorted into Ravenclaw…”

The boy grinned. “Yeah, I know, I know. Mum says I’ll wear my eyes out if I don’t stop reading so much.”

“Well, I expect your mum might be just as interested, on this occasion. Just don’t let it get in the way of your studies, eh? OWLS next year, remember.”

He rolled his eyes. “Like I could forget.” After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped the ring over his middle finger, and watched in fascination as it shrank down to fit him. “Thanks, Granddad.”

“Not at all. Go on then, don’t be late for dinner, now.”

The boy hopped up as though someone had set fire to the chair under him, and hurried off with a wave. After a few decades of watching teenagers grow, Neville didn’t have to wonder where all the food they ate went to. Frankie was, after all, a growing boy. He took after his grandad, that way, and not the skinny one with the knobbly knees and glasses.

Neville sat back in his chair and regarded the box once more. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached in and gingerly pulled out the packet of letters, pulling one end of the ribbon that held them until they separated in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he found the earliest one by the date on the envelope, and gingerly unfolded a one-hundred-year-old piece of parchment.

* * *

_“… and I hope that you will write to Mr Longbottom and express to him how much you are looking forward to the day, and to enquire of me if he should like anything especially so that I shall make sure to accommodate him on your behalf. The dressmaker will be here the day you return home on the train, so that we will have time to ensure the fit of the dress, which I have found very modest and I am sure will be to your taste. I have informed her of your request for an avian detail which she has promised to consider, though I hope you will not set your mind on it as we must keep in mind whether Mr Longbottom and his family should approve …”_

* * *

“I still cannae believe you’re going through with it.”

Augusta tapped her quill against her parchment and tried not to let her feelings show on her face. Her mother had been very insistent that she practice keeping a handle on her temper, this term. _Nobody likes a red-faced fish wife_ , mama had said, and the image had stuck with her. She hadn’t shouted at anyone in weeks. If only Minerva wouldn’t be _so_ interfering. “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be meditating?” she asked sweetly instead, looking over to where the freckled girl was sitting cross-legged on a cushion in the middle of the common room, wearing tartan pyjamas. Augusta, who always wore a proper nightgown even in winter and wouldn’t have been seen in it _in public_ for a thousand Galleons, couldn’t help turning her nose up, just a little.

“I’m done.” Minerva stretched and her spine cracked audibly; Augusta held back a grimace with iron will. In her opinion, doing your specially-assigned extra study in front of everyone was just showing off. Minerva was studying privately with Professor Dumbledore to become one of the youngest ever Animagi, and was set to receive all sorts of special awards by the time they left school in a few months. At least her Animagus form was just a boring old cat, Augusta thought bitterly. If Minerva had been able to transform herself into something that could fly, Augusta didn’t know if their already tentative friendship would have survived the jealousy she would have felt. As it was, it was all she could do to keep her feelings to herself, no matter how impolite.

“It’s very pretty,” Minerva added, and Augusta realised she had been peering over at _her_ parchment. The gown she had been sketching was floor-length and long-sleeved, quite modest indeed, with an understated train and a sheer veil. Where she had focused the drawing was a feathered pattern in the skirt that spread up to where real feathers decorated the bodice, and a pair of feathered wings rose elegantly over the shoulders.

“Oh,” Augusta said quickly, pulling the drawing out of sight. “It’s just a bit of sillness. I’m sure mother will chose something traditional.”

Her friend frowned, and Augusta sensed yet another argument. They were not exactly the closest of chums, but they tolerated each other’s company when others would not, which tended to leave them outside of most other circles. They were a mismatched pair; Augusta the only daughter of an ancient and proud line of wizards, and who never had a thread out of place, Minerva the eldest of a trio of ragtag halfblood Scots, all with manes of curly dark hair, who always seemed to be everywhere at once. Augusta had long since given up trying to be top of the year when Minerva was around, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have ambitions. At least, that’s what she told herself.

“I dinnae see why you can’t choose your ain dress,” Minerva said now, in the accent that Augusta sometimes thought she emphasised just so people would have to strain to understand her. “Since you didnae e’en get to choose your ain husband.”

Augusta sighed. “I did chose him. He asked, I said yes. I’ve explained this already.”

“You’ve met him _once_.” Minerva’s face was a mask of disapproval. “He didnae even ask you in person, he only owled your father, like he was askin’ to borrow a plough.”

“That’s how it works. You’d know that, if you had any breeding.”

“He’s too old for you,” Minerva countered sharply, ignoring the insult as though she hadn’t even heard it. “And you know he only picked you because he’s hoping you can have loads of babies.”

Augusta felt her face go red. “Minerva!”

“Well, it’s true. It’s no secret his brother hasnae any kids, and his own first wife had none either. If neither of them have any heirs their whole family dies oot.”

“So will mine,” Augusta snapped. “No matter what happens. And at least this way…” she grit her teeth and tried to remember what her father had said. “This way I’ll be the mother of some of the most influential wizards and witches of the next generation, rather than just fading into obscurity, with no name.”

She could tell from Minerva’s face that she still didn’t understand. “But does it have to be _Longbottom?_ ” she asked, making another face, which Augusta did not appreciate.

“All the eligible Malfoys were taken,” she said flatly, and went to get ready for bed.

* * *

_“… and sorry again that I can’t come down for the wedding. Dougal is going to take me to a cottage on his family’s land (ma and da think I am staying with a friend from school!) Since you asked, it isn’t so strange pretending not to be a witch; honestly when I am with him the last thing I am thinking about is magic… you can’t imagine what it is like. I always thought I would be too busy trying to be Minister for Magic to ever fall in love. Now I’m wondering if that is even something I want anymore. Even with a job waiting for me in London, sometimes I wonder if I really want to go at all. I think it might break my heart to be away from him even for a week. I know I made fun, but I truly hope that you will know how it feels one day…”_

* * *

Augusta stood watching the dancers turn about the ballroom floor. She couldn’t help feeling that she would rather have liked to join them, but it really wouldn’t do to be seen dancing with anyone other than her husband at this point in the evening, and he seemed somewhat occupied with talking to her father at the other end of the dining table. At least they both looked happy; her father perhaps a little more so. His responsibilities were over now; the family legacy secured even if the name was doomed to disappear into history. She was a Longbottom now, and if she had thought it would feel somehow different, she didn’t know now whether it did. Mostly she just felt emotionally drained. The effort of maintaining a demure smile on her face ever since the veil was lifted off her face was starting to tell.

“There’s my little sister.” She turned to see her new brother in law smiling down on her from his ridiculous height. Just behind him she could see his wife, settling into a chair with flushed cheeks and a smile.

“Algernon,” she forced her own smile back on her face; why was it so difficult? Wasn’t it supposed to be the happiest day of her life?

“Oh dear, call me Algie. We’re family now, after all.” He held out his hand in a most gentleman-like manner. “May I have this dance, Augusta?”

She hesitated. She did so want to dance. Surely there couldn’t be any harm in dancing with her husband’s brother. No one could see anything improper in that. Her smile became genuine, and she gave him her hand. “I would like that,” she said, and curtseyed, the white ruffles on her gown crinkling audibly as she straightened. “Your wife won’t mind?” she asked, as he led her into the middle of the floor.

He put his hand politely on her waist as the turns began. “Poor Enid, I’m afraid I’ve already danced her off her feet. She told me I had better go and find another partner before she fainted of starvation.” He grinned.

“Well, in that case I’m more than happy to be a poor substitute.”

“Not at all. You’re a very good dancer, and I’m afraid you’ll be wasted, otherwise. My brother isn’t one to turn about in front of a crowd, I’m sorry to tell you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as he twirled her first one way and then the other. It seemed like an odd thing to say. She had after all had the first dance, and although Cornelius’ hand in hers had felt somewhat stiff and formal as they moved about the floor, she had assumed he was being respectful. Since then, however, it was true that he had not shown any intention of dancing a second time. “Well,” she said, feeling as though she needed to say something in response, to be polite. “That’s a shame, but I’m sure there will be other things we have in common.”

“Mm.” Algie’s murmured response sounded doubtful. They went through a few more turns in silence, moving to the measured pace kept by the musicians on the dais.

“Augusta,” he said, after a while, in an undertone that only she could hear. “I had meant to take this opportunity to welcome you to the family. But, I’m sorry to say this…” he hesitated, his own hands going a little stiff. “Now that I see you, I can’t do so with a clear conscience. You’re so young… it seems so very unfair.”

Augusta blinked. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “You know that Cornelius was married before?”

“Yes.” She nodded, uncertain, and tried to keep her voice respectful. “My father told me that she… passed on.”

“She was pregnant,” Algernon said, with shocking apathy. “Complications to do with the baby; it was was deformed, poor thing.”

Augusta’s breath caught in her throat, and she almost stumbled over her next step. She would have stopped dancing altogether, but his pace kept her moving in time with him. “I didn’t know,” she said, breathless, struggling to get back into step.

“Enid and I have been unable to even conceive,” he went on, apparently unaware of how much he had stunned her. “Cornelius would not have married again at all, otherwise… it quite broke him, you see, when it happened… he would not have married her either, except that our parents insisted. Cornelius is… Augusta, I would not for the world cause you any pain, but I feel it abhorrent that you go to your marriage bed without knowing; my brother has never had much care for… well, the attentions of... women.”

Augusta gasped and tried to pull away from his hold; his arm snaked further around her waist and held her, keeping her in the dance, and she was forced to move her feet to keep up with him or be sent careening into the dancers around them. “How can you say such a thing?” she exclaimed in a low undertone, her eyes flicking from side to side to see if anyone had overheard. “About your own brother?”

“My brother needs an heir. He has very little choice. I’m not saying he’s a bad man, quite the opposite; don’t doubt that he will do his duty by you, but do not be surprised if he fails to show you quite the affection expected of a husband towards his wife. He isn’t capable of it.”

This time Augusta managed to tug her way out of his grip, backing towards the edge of the floor. She knew her cheeks were flushed with shock and anger, and some of the guests were turning to stare, but she didn’t care anymore what people thought. “How dare you,” she spat, as he tried to hurry after her. “Stay away from me.”

He reached for her arm. “Augusta-”

“Is something wrong?”

She turned and looked up, her heart in her throat, to see Cornelius; tall, dark-haired, handsome despite being over twice her age, a deep frown creasing his noble forehead. “No,” she said, still breathless, and took his hand. Immediately she felt safer, and sure that Algie had only been playing a cruel trick. “No, it’s quite all right.”

Cornelius was still glaring at his brother, who was frowning back at him in return. “Augusta,” he said, but without looking at her. “It’s getting late; perhaps you would like to retire?”

“Oh,” she said, and felt her cheeks get even redder. “Yes… that is, if you would like to, of course…”

“Excellent. Would you like to say goodnight to your parents? Or perhaps Algie could tell them that we’ve left.”

Algie’s face twisted into something like despair. “Neel, you can’t just -”

“Wonderful. See you sometime soon, little brother. Thank you so _very_ much for coming.” He turned to Augusta, and looked at her at last, and then they were suddenly standing in a room she had never seen before; high-ceilinged, with a giant four-poster bed and a mirror almost the height of the room. He caught her before she could fall.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Your Apparition is so fast!”

“It’s a talent. Sorry about that, I should have warned you.”

“But I hardly even felt it!”

He actually smiled then, only a little, but it was perhaps the first real smile she could remember seeing on his face. He let go of her and stood back a little.“I’m sorry... was Algie bothering you?”

She shook her head, quickly. “Oh, no… just a bit of silliness, really.”

He nodded, and she tried to catch her breath, looking down at the sweeping skirt of her wedding dress, a stark contrast with the dark rug under her feet. This was his bedroom, she realised with a drop in her stomach, and oh, this was it, and it wasn’t at all the way she had imagined. “I forgot,” he said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “I got you something, just a little gift.” He moved to one side and then back, holding something out to her. She took it, and her hands trembled a little. “Your mother said you liked birds,” he said, by way of explanation.

It was a silver brooch, beautifully designed, in the shape of a dove. Just the right size, not too overstated and not gaudy or glittery with colour; just the sort of thing she liked. Though when she looked closer, she thought the eyes might be diamonds.

She looked up at him, trying to force another smile but it wouldn’t quite come; she had to fight back tears all of a sudden - _no!_ No, she couldn’t be weeping, not on her wedding night! “I love it,” she said, softly.

“You’re crying.” He moved away and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t…” He ran his hand through his thick, curly hair. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, “you’re just a child…”

“I am not,” she said hurriedly, lifting her chin in defiance even as she quickly wiped her eyes with the lace sleeve of her dress, though it was not a particularly effective handkerchief, and of course she had no pockets to keep a proper one in. She clutched the brooch in her other hand so tightly it was painful. “I’m not, at all. I know what to do. My… my mother explained to me.” And Minerva too, she thought, but did not say; Minerva was especially good at telling the kinds of wicked stories that made all the girls shriek with horrified amusement.

She ran her hand down the front of her dress; there were no feathers, no wings, of course, it had only ever been a silly fantasy, a child’s fantasy. She was a married woman now, and there was no more room for such fantasies.

He actually chuckled, though it didn’t feel as though he were laughing at her, more a helpless sort of sound. “Your mother explained to you,” he repeated, very soft, and lowered his head into his hands.

He looked so sad all of a sudden that she felt a little boost of confidence. She let the brooch fall onto the side table nearest to her, the one that was bare. “I’m your wife,” she said, going to sit beside him. “I want to give you a child. It’s my duty.”

His hand fell and he looked over at her, pitying. “You… you mustn’t get your hopes up,” he said, and his voice was gravelly. “I may not be… at least, the Healers are of the opinion that my family… after centuries of marrying amongst ourselves… it might be impossible for me to father a child. A living child. I hope you won’t take it to heart, if... ”

She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “I can do it,” she promised, though where that certainty came from she had no idea. “I promise. Isn’t that why you married me?”

His lips twitched, and he stared at her as though seeing something he had not seen before. “Your father said you were stubborn.”

She sniffed. “He doesn’t know the half of it.”

He reached out, a very slight hesitancy in his hand, and pulled the pin out of her hair. Thick waves of auburn spilled down over her shoulders, and she blushed, but didn’t look away. She reached for the fastening at the throat of her dress, but he stayed her hand, looking into her eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She stared back at him. She didn’t understand the question. She remembered what Algie had said and felt the shiver of doubt return. “It’s our wedding night,” she said, low and suddenly self-concious. “Am I not… do you not want…”

“Augusta…”

She bit her lip, and was afraid she might cry again, but then he sighed. He leaned towards her, slowly, slowly, and his lips touched hers, gently, and she was sure then that everything Algie had said was all silly nonsense after all, as his fingers undid the fastenings with ease.

* * *

_“... so very, very happy to hear that you are feeling better and the Healers say you are both doing healthy. Such wonderful news, I think Algie actually cried a little when he read your letter, and was quite overcome, and I have it on good authority that our mother in law_ _did_ _cry on receiving hers, and had to be sent to bed with a calming potion, so you see the whole family is quite awash with tears and wishing with all our hearts that you continue well. Dear sister, I don’t mind telling you that they were all acting harbingers of doom these last few months, and I the only voice of reason amid them all, for, I said, Augusta is made of sterner stuff and would not do anything so ridiculous as to die for no reason._

_If you would like my advice, as the last person before you to marry into this family of dramatists, you will not let the Longbottoms - meaning of course, Algie and Neel’s parents - know when you should expect the birth, or you shall have them all around and making a ruckus when you should most like, I imagine, to have as much privacy as could be expected, and if you should like more advice which I hope you will not take amiss, to send your husband away at the earliest opportunity on some errand or another that should take him some time, so that he is also not getting in the way._

_So much love, sister, and I hope you know that should you be in need of help of any kind that I shall be at your side and at the side at the luckiest of children, my niece or nephew whom I know and trust will take after their mother in strength and in courage…”_

* * *

Augusta woke from a sleep smelling of rose petals, a kiss having been pressed to her forehead, and opened her eyes to see her husband’s face, dark circles under his eyes and blotched patches on his cheek. “What is it?” she asked, quickly, trying to sit up and gasping with pain. “Is something - is he -”

“He’s perfect,” he sighed, and she realised the look in his eyes was joy, real joy, such as she had never seen on his face.

She tried to relax into the pillows; she felt as though every part of her body was one big ache. “You saw him? He’s all right?”

“He’s a little small, but the Healer said he’s strong as an Errumpent and there’s no danger... I can’t believe it.”

She closed her eyes. “Well, I did promise, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said, sounding a little hesitant, “I know you did, but after all this time, I thought…”

“I never promised it would be right away. I think six years was a fair enough compromise, under the circumstances.”

He went quiet for a moment, and she thought he might go away again, thinking she was asleep. Instead he stayed beside her on the bed. “I know I have not been exactly…” he hesitated, and she thought she could sense without looking that he was rubbing his right thumb against the inside of his left palm, the way he did sometimes when he was anxious. “That perhaps I could have been more…”

“Enthusiastic?” she suggested, opening her eyes to look at him wearily. “It’s a little hard for me to make a baby without you, you know.”

“I know, that, Augusta... only, after the first two years…”

“I understand.” And she did, after all. Algie had tried to tell her, a long time ago, but she had needed to see it for herself, to really know what it meant. “It’s all right, Neel. You have your heir, now. You don’t have to so much as touch me anymore, if you don’t like to.”

He took a sharp intake of breath, as though she had stabbed him. “I deserved that,” he said, after a moment to gather himself. “But there’s no need for things to be… to be cold, between us… especially not now. We have a son...”

“Oh? So I’m not expected to raise him on my own while you’re taking weekly trips to Muggle London to drink and gamble and heaven knows what else with your gentleman friends? How on earth will you find the time?”

He stood up. “You’re tired,” he said, low. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” She fought back tears. He had not, after all, made any denials. “I want you to be a father to our son, I just don’t know if you’re so much as capable of it. I’ll do it on my own if I have to, though, just like I’ve done everything so far.”

He turned away, shaking. “Enough. You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going to owl our families, and the Prophet; there should be an announcement in tomorrow’s issue.”

Augusta’s mouth fell open. “How can you announce him without a name?” she demanded.

“He has a name. His name is Frank Agoston Longbottom.”

She stared at him. “Oh,” she said, once she had finally regained her breath. “Well. That’s good to know. Thank you ever so much for telling me.”

“Augusta, don’t be -”

“Get out.” She pulled the comforter up to her chin and turned away. “Just go away, Cornelius.”

He left. She turned her face into the pillow and wept, even as from the nearby nursery she heard another cry, high and shrill and desperate, and she dug the heels of her hands into her ears.

* * *

_… nights seem longer than they really are. I find myself lying awake for hours, watching her sleep, listening to every tiny noise in the dark. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t constantly anxious, and sometimes I wonder if we ought to just take Dumbledore up on his offer of a safe house. Once the baby comes, perhaps we will, if only I can convince Alice to do it for the sake of the child; I agreed that we ought not hide away for our own sakes while we can do some good, but I feel already as though protecting him (Alice insists it’s going to be a boy, as no girl would kick her mother’s bladder so ruthlessly) supersedes our responsibility as Aurors. I’m afraid that she will insist on returning to work as soon as she is allowed out of bed, as every day the Healer insists she continue to rest is like a personal insult to her endurance …_

* * *

“Mother?”

Augusta flew into his arms, holding him so tight around the shoulders that he actually gasped for air. It wasn’t dignified at all, but she did not care. “Oh, Frank,” she breathed, pulling back long enough to look at his face. “Oh, you’re all right. We’ve been so worried…”

The look on his face was haggard and drawn, both sorrowful and baffled, somehow, as though he had seen something incomprehensible and was still trying to make sense of it. Coming through the door behind him, holding her son in a tight bundle in her arms, his wife did not even try to hide the tracks of tears down her face.

“Is it true?” Augusta asked, looking between them. “Is it really over?”

Frank nodded, slowly. “It seems so. At least, Dumbledore told us it was true, otherwise I wouldn’t believe it myself. Where’s father?”

“Upstairs. Alice, dear, give him here.”

Her daughter in law looked up at her with daggers in her eyes, and clutched the toddler even tighter to her chest so that he started to wriggle unhappily. Frank put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and reluctantly she let him loosen her grip enough for him to take Neville from her. “You should sit down,” he said, low, leading her into the living room. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” she muttered, still clutching with one hand to her baby’s blanket. “I can’t… I have to _do_ something...”

“Sit down, girl,” Augusta said firmly. She knew Alice would have liked to scream at her, but she wouldn’t, for Frank’s sake, and sometimes children needed a stern voice to keep from doing silly things that would get them hurt. Frank guided her onto the edge of one of the large sofas, where she practically curled up into a ball. Augusta took the baby out of Frank’s arms and looked at him - how much bigger he had gotten since she last saw him? He yawned and blew a spit bubble, dribbling all over his chubby cheeks; Augusta promptly wiped it away with her handkerchief.

“Frank!”

Frank looked up as his father came through the door after them. Cornelius’ hair had turned white, and he walked with a stick, but he moved faster in that moment than Augusta would have given him credit for as he hurried to embrace his son. “You’re all right, all of you?” he asked, wheezing a little.

“We’re fine,” Frank said, low. “He… he went after James and Lily, after all.”

“That poor baby,” Alice murmured, her hands curled into tight fists in her lap. “That poor, poor baby, all alone…”

Frank sat beside her and put his arm around her, she turned her face into his chest and shook silently. It was strange to see her so broken. She was always so loud and fiery and stubborn in her opinions - rather like Augusta herself in some ways, though she would have never admitted as much, as it was what she had always disapproved of in Frank’s choice of wife.

“It’s true, then,” Cornelius said, falling into a chair himself, his stick clattering to one side. He coughed. “He killed the Potters? But what happened then? People are saying… well the _Prophet_ is saying that the _baby_ somehow killed him… but that can’t be right, can it?”

“That’s what Dumbledore said.” Frank sighed. “Voldemort -”

Augusta flinched and covered Neville’s ears. “Frank!”

“He’s dead, mother. There’s no need to be afraid of the name, anymore.”

“He tried to kill their poor baby,” Alice gasped, wiping her eyes. “Because of that ridiculous… stupid… and something must have gone wrong… Dumbledore said he thinks it must have rebounded and destroyed him somehow… but how could he know that? He wasn’t there.”

Augusta felt as though her heart was in her throat. She looked down at her grandson, who was already fussy, trying to get back to his mother. “What happened to him?” she asked, shocked. “The baby?”

Frank and Alice looked at each other. “Well, Sirius was his godfather,” Frank said, low.

“Sirius Black?” Cornelius frowned. “Wasn’t he arrested?”

“Yes, this morning. He was the Secret Keeper. They’re saying he killed twelve Muggles trying to get away.”

“Oh,” Augusta sighed. “That’s horrible.”

“Dumbledore handed him over to Lily’s family,” Alice muttered. “As though there weren’t any other options! Lily’s told me about them. They hate wizards! And magic! I tried to tell him _we_ would have taken him…”

“Of course we would,” Frank said, darkly. “But he said no. There’s some reason he needs to be raised by those particular Muggles...”

“Mu-mmy!” Neville wriggled in Augusta’s arms and stretched out his hands towards Alice.

“Oh, sweetheart. Come here, baby.” Alice took him back and held him close as though she would never let go. “I’ll never let anything happen to you,” she said, rocking him back and forth. “I promise.”

There was a long moment of silence, while the weight of the day’s news weighed itself upon each of them. “Well,” Augusta said finally, gathering herself. “This won’t do. I shall have the maid bring us all a cup of tea.”

* * *

_“...Alice Longbottom nee Johnson, my wife. At the time of filing this will, I have one child of this marriage, whose name and birthdate is as follows:_

_Neville Algernon Longbottom, July 30, 1980_

_Reference to “my children” or “my child” forthwith shall include children born later and children adopted by me. I have no deceased children._

_If my wife does not survive me, and it is necessary to appoint a guardian, I appoint James and Lily Potter guardians of my children. If for any reason James and Lily Potter cannot act as guardian, I appoint Cornelius and Augusta Longbottom as guardian of each minor child._

_If my wife does not survive me, and it is necessary to appoint a guardian for my estate, I appoint Cornelius Longbottom as guardian of the estate…”_

* * *

“Cornelius, you cannot simply continue to spend each and every day up here staring into the fire.”

Augusta caught a glance of her own reflection in the large mirror on the opposite wall; her hair, which had turned grey so rapidly over the last five years, was coming loose from its pins. She adjusted it with irritation and turned back to her husband. He wasn’t even looking at her. “Are you listening to me?” she sighed.

“Mm?” His fingers tapped a little on the arm of his chair, the one he rarely moved from these days. “Not today… I don’t think I’ll get up today. I’m not feeling too well.”

Augusta pressed her lips together. “Do you know, I think Enid must be right when she says I have the patience of a saint,” she muttered. “An absolute saint.” She swept out of the room and went downstairs.

Deep down, she knew it was unfair of her to continue on at Cornelius in this way. Seeing what had happened to Frank had quite broken him, and every day since then had been a slow degeneration until he was practically in the same state. Half the time she didn’t know if he understood her when she spoke. He was ill, and no amount of shouting would cause him to suddenly gain twenty more years of life.

But it wasn’t fair of him, either, to abandon her in every way but the physical. She’d already raised one boy practically alone, a child she had loved and still loved with every fibre of her being. She should have been the one who lost the will to live when she first saw her son staring into space, seeing but not comprehending, absent from his body; a fate worse than death. Instead she kept on, every day, in the face of it all. She had to be the strong one, for Frank, and for Neville, whom she was now also bringing up alone.

Cornelius could at least acknowledge that it was his family’s inbreeding and poor genetics that had no doubt led to the child’s near-constant sickness and lack of magical ability. She still had no idea what she was going to do if the boy didn’t get into Hogwarts; would he have to go to a Muggle school? She knew almost nothing about that world.

In his youth, he had told her, Cornelius had often walked easily through the main streets of Muggle London, and he and his friends had even made a game of trying to find unexploded bombs during the war, and rendering them useless with magic before the Muggle authorities could arrive. He understood the money and the clothing at least, which was more than she did, but he was either unwilling or unable to discuss the matter whenever she brought it up. He’d been just as happy on the day of Neville’s birth as he had been when Frank was born; since carrying on the family name was the only duty he had ever taken seriously, but now that Neville truly needed him, all he could do was sit and tell stories.

Whatever good that would do anyone? She would have liked to know.

After ensuring that all the servants were at their work and not lounging about, she went into the study and set to her own task of settling the family accounts. She refused to touch any of Frank’s estate, though technically his incapacitation had left Cornelius in charge of the money. She would leave it; there was always a faint hope in the back of her mind that her son might need it someday. And if not… well, when Neville came of age she would transfer it to him. Since Algie and Enid had never had any children of their own, her grandson stood to eventually inherit the entire Longbottom fortune, and she had no intention of putting any of it in jeopardy. What would happen to it all if Neville did turn out to be a squib… she didn’t like to think.

The tutor, Mr Mayson, put his head into the study at the end of the school day to let her know he was leaving, and to assure her that Neville’s reading and mathematics were coming along nicely. “I shouldn’t worry too much about it, Madam,” he said easily when she asked once again if he had seen any evidence of latent magic in his pupil. “Some kids are just late bloomers; like I mentioned to you before, I didn’t start levitating things until I was eight. Magic is funny that way.”

But Mr Mayson, Augusta thought grimly, for all his satisfactory NEWT results and excellent references, was not the son of two Aurors, or the descendant of hundreds of generations of Pureblood wizards. Frank had shown signs of magical ability before he could even walk, and Augusta herself remembered deliberately vanishing the broccoli out of her bowl at five. Algernon - whom she had come to tolerate for Enid’s sake, as she was a sweet woman, but had never particularly learned to _like_ \- had actually tossed the poor boy off of the pier the previous summer in the hopes of shocking him into a magical event, and almost drowned him. Augusta hadn’t spoken to him since, and hadn’t been able to tell Enid when she was going to lift that sanction; her grandson was nearly all that she had left in the world, and she certainly never would have forgiven her brother-in-law if Neville _had_ drowned, so she wasn’t sure why she ought to, just because he hadn’t.

It was seven o’clock before the maid came to tell her that she had gone to fetch Neville for dinner but couldn’t find him. “His dinner should have been an hour ago,” Augusta said coldly.

“I’ve been looking…”

“An hour? You can’t have looked very hard.”

“You know he hides sometimes, Ma’am. I keep saying we ought to put a tracking charm on him.”

Augusta sighed and got out of her seat. Her bones creaked rather alarmingly. She was much too old to be chasing a six-year-old around a house this size, she thought. “Never mind. I think I know where he might have got to. Go and make sure the food isn’t too cold, won’t you?”

She climbed the stairs again, feeling every one. She might still be in her right mind, but what had happened to Frank and Alice had aged her more than she cared to admit. She wasn’t even seventy; for a witch that was practically middle age. But her hair was grey, her skin was wrinkled, and her joints ached. As she reached the top of the stairs, however, she heard Neville’s voice, and the distress in it made her move faster than she had in years - she covered the distance between the stairs and her husband’s room before she could even think.

“Granddad!” Neville was sitting in Cornelius lap and had his fists bunched into the shoulder of his robes, shaking him.

“Neville, what on earth are you doing?” she demanded, hurrying inside.

Neville gasped and jumped immediately out of the chair. “I’m sorry Gran!” he cried. “He… was telling me a story and he fell asleep…”

Augusta stared. Her husband’s face was white and lifeless, his mouth hanging slack and open on one side. His eyes were closed, but she didn’t need to see them; she knew.

“Neville, go to your room right now,” she snapped. “Go, get out!”

Tears streaming down his face, the boy ran out of the room. And then she was alone.

She knelt down beside the chair, no longer feeling the pain in her hips and knees. “Cornelius?” she whispered, and touched his hand. It was still warm, but he did not move, and when she pressed her fingers to his wrist there was no sensation of throbbing under the skin. “Neel?”

He didn’t answer, but then she hadn’t expected him to. “You’ve some nerve, old man,” she said, shaking her head as she stood up. She realised her hands were shaking, too, and she clasped them firmly together, pursing her lips as she looked down at the empty shell in the chair. “Some nerve,” she repeated, breathless, and slammed the door after her as she ran out into the corridor, where the air was clean.

Later, after the Healers had taken the body away and all the servants, some of them still crying, had gone home, Augusta went wearily to the room at the end of the corridor on the first floor. There was a small lump curled up under the blankets on the bed. She thought at first that its occupant might be asleep, but then a mop of mousy-brown hair poked out and she saw brown eyes blinking blearily at her. “Gran?”

She went and sat beside him on the edge of the bed, and he shifted over a little to make room. She stroked his hair, running it between her fingers. It was lighter than Frank’s had been at this age, she noticed.

“Gran?” Neville looked up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “Is Granddad dead?”

“Yes, dear. I’m afraid so.”

“Oh.” He turned his face into the pillow and sniffed.

“Oh Neville.” Augusta sighed. “Do you have another cold?”

He shook his head quickly. “No... I don’t think so.” He went to wipe his nose on the back of his pyjama sleeve, but at his grandmother’s look he thought better of it and reached for a handkerchief before blowing his nose. The poor boy’s immune system had hardly been helped by being thrown into the ocean. The family Healer said that he would grow out of it, but until then, she was forced to take precautions; he stayed inside most of the time where there was less chance of catching a virus, and she wouldn’t let him play with other children, who were always dirty in her experience.

“You understand what it means?” she asked, folding her hands into her lap. “That Granddad passed away?”

He hesitated a moment. “Yes,” he said finally. “They’re going to put him in the ground with the worms.”

Augusta swallowed. At least he wasn’t wailing; she didn’t hold with hysterics and wasn’t sure she could have borne it under the circumstances. “He’ll be buried,” she told him, as calmly as she could manage. “At the graveyard, where I showed you my parents’ graves, remember? But they put the… they put him in a nice box, so the worms can’t get to him.”

“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment while he took that in. “And we can go and see him sometimes, like we went to see your Mum’n’Dad?”

“Yes, if you’d like to. Perhaps we could go on Sundays, sometimes.”

“We go to the hospital on Sundays.”

“Yes, but I mean after. If that’s what you’d like.”

He thought about it. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

“All right.” She reached out to stroke his hair again but decided at the last moment to pat him gently on the leg instead. He was getting a little too old for coddling, after all.

“Gran? Are you angry?”

She blinked and shook her head. “No, Neville, I’m not angry. Just a little sad, that’s all.” She remembered suddenly that she had shouted at him. Perhaps she ought to have come to him straight away, for comfort, but there had been so much to do… and if she stopped, if she really stopped, and she let her mind take over, she was afraid of what she would feel. Because she _was_ sad, but not sad enough. She wasn’t devastated. And that was wrong; she _ought_ to be heartbroken that her husband of forty years had died suddenly and before his time. Enid had bawled her eyes out when she had made the Floo Call, and she had never even really liked Cornelius. But Augusta felt painfully empty, searching for a feeling that ought to have been there but she could not find. It frightened her that there might not be a heart left to break, that it had broken five years ago and might never heal enough for her to feel the depth of her own tragedy. She might have never loved Cornelius as a wife ought to love her husband, but he had been her partner in life since she was seventeen. Most importantly, he was Frank’s father. And yet the fact that Frank wouldn’t know, would never be able to understand that his father was gone, that saddened her more than her own loss.

Neville shifted in the bed, sitting up. “Don’t be sad, Gran,” he said, softly, and put his little arms around her thin waist. “I’m still here. I’ll look after you.”

She felt for a moment as though all the air had been driven out of her lungs, and as she folded her arms around her grandson and held him tightly, she felt tears finally come to her eyes, not for herself, but for the little boy who was now the absolute centre of her life, who deserved to have more left in _his_ life than an old woman whose compassion and affection had been hardened and shrivelled long ago. Not for the first time she made a silent promise, to Frank and to Alice, and to Cornelius as well, imagining him as he had been on the day she married him; tall, handsome, adventurous, with a knack for lightning-fast Apparition and a bright smile. _Neville isn’t going to spend his life looking after me. I’ll make sure of it. He’ll get into Hogwarts if I have to twist Dumbledore’s arm or bribe the school board… I’ll even beg Minerva for a favour, whatever it takes. I won’t leave him until I know he’s safe. Until I know he’s ready. Our boy won’t be left alone._

* * *

_“... just so glad to hear that you’re all right. Everyone is worried about their families, especially the Muggleborns, but I haven’t been, because I never really expected that they would go this far, which I suppose is pretty stupid of me. Of course they would. I could have told them that they’d get more than they bargained for, of course, but no one asked me for my opinion. I’m in hiding now, because I know that when the Carrows catch me they won’t be sending me back to class, but sneaking around here I’ve learned things about the castle that I’m not sure even Dumbledore knew about! I’ve been lucky with finding secret passages and things… it’s almost like the castle is trying to help me._

_I know that sounds silly, and I bet that’s what you’d say to me if you were here. Sometimes I wish you were, so that I could protect you, like Dad would want me to, but it’s no safer here than wherever you are, and I know you can take care of yourself, only please promise to stay hidden until it’s time. You know they won’t make the same mistake again. I only hope the owl can find you. If they catch me or something happens, I love you. I’m sorry for putting you through all this…”_

* * *

She stood at the edge of the grave, looking down. It was a strangely bright and sunny day, which felt wrong; it ought to have been raining. There should have been thunder and lightning and torrenting hail, if the world had any sense, but instead there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The storm she imagined was only in her own heart.

“Gran?” A round-faced man in his mid-fifties, dressed in black robes, came up beside her. “You ready to go?”

She reached out and put a hand on his arm. Surprised, he took some of her weight as she leaned into him. “Are you all right?” he asked, quickly. “Do you need-?”

“I’m fine, Neville,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. When had he gotten so tall? “I’m just feeling my age today, that’s all. You’ll understand when _you_ turn one hundred and five.”

He hesitated a moment before putting his arm around her, and for a while they just stood there, looking down at the casket. The plot was a double, and the other side had already been filled in. The headstone hadn’t been updated yet; there was only a space left for the date.

ALICE LAURA LONGBOTTOM

1954-2034

FRANK AGOSTON LONGBOTTOM

1953-

_LIBERUM VOLARE_

“Fly free,” Neville translated, aloud. It was good to know that those Latin lessons Mr Mayson had laboured through during his childhood hadn’t been a complete waste of time and money.

“You approve?”

“Course I do,” he said, gruffy.

The rest of the mourners had moved away, so that it was just the two of them left looking at the headstone, the message that represented not just a sadness but a strange kind of relief, for both of them. It was unspoken and yet they both felt it deeply, and knew that the other felt it just the same.

“That was a lovely Eulogy, dear,” she said, after a moment.

“I’m not very good at speeches,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. As a child, she remembered, it had been so much lighter, but now it was dark brown, just like Frank’s. It was rare that she saw Frank in Neville, he took so much after his mother, but in that moment it was almost like looking at a reflection of her son. “I’ve been working on it, you know, since Mum…” Neville added, sounding strangely guilty. “And Hannah helped.”

“That’s a good woman you’ve found,” Augusta said, patting his hand. “A good woman.”

Neville winced. “Thank you. I’m so glad you approve, considering we’re about to have our first grandchild.” 

“Oh Neville, you know what I mean. Don’t be silly.” She looked over to where the rest of the guests were taking their leave, one by one until only the family remained, waiting for her - her grandson’s wife with her great-grandchildren.

Anthony, Neville’s oldest and only son, stood head and shoulders over his sisters. Just as she saw Frank in Neville now, Tony always made her think of Cornelius. The same sharp jawline, the same impish glint to his eye. He certainly had her husband’s adventurous spirit, having taken off to Africa as soon as he had the chance. He had travelled home for the funeral, rather surprising them all. As Augusta watched, Lizzie turned her face into her husband’s robes, weeping; she had so hoped that her grandparents would hold on until her baby was born. She was her father’s daughter in so many ways; dirt always under her fingernails, a kind heart, a stubborn streak. Her husband, Albus, was remarkably sensible, a Healer, unusual for a Potter; Augusta couldn’t help but approve of him. And then little Alice, fifteen and still in Hogwarts robes, holding her mother’s hand. She was wearing one of Augusta’s old necklaces, borrowed for the occasion.

 _I wish you could see this, Frank_ , she thought, clutching the handle of her handbag. _This is why I fought so hard to give you life. No one thought I could do it, but here they are. Your legacy, and mine - four generations. No one can say I didn’t do my duty._

“Gran?”

She looked up into Neville’s worried face and reached up to pat his cheek reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear. I was just thinking how happy your father would be to see what you’ve achieved. I’m sure… I know he’d be very proud of you.”

Despite being only a few years off sixty, Neville was no better now at hiding his embarrassment than he had been at six. “Thanks, Gran… but you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she said again, straightening and adjusting her hat; a plain black one, today, today was not the day for ostentation. “It would be rather ridiculous to wish for that nightmare to continue a day longer. And now I can go to my own rest knowing that my son will be waiting for me, and I can speak to him again, as he was.”

“Don’t say that.” Neville’s face fell. “You wouldn’t do that to me, not Mum and Dad _and_ you in the same year…”

“Oh, certainly not. There’s a few years left in me yet. I want to meet my great-great-grandson. And then we’ll see what happens, I expect.”

“Gran…”

“No one lives forever, Neville. Although some of us are doomed to live longer than others.” She took a deep breath; the air that filled her lungs was fresh and warm, and in that moment she felt anything other than on the brink of death. She touched the headstone for a moment, just a moment, and turned away to take his arm. It was over. “Come along, now, Neville. Elizabeth shouldn’t be standing about in a graveyard any longer. You can never be too careful about these things.”

* * *

_“... won’t stop talking, bless him, now that he’s figured out how. Mum says we should expect another Ravenclaw in the family, but Ginny says Al wasn’t so chatty as a baby, so it’s hard to say, perhaps he’s just a bit of a show-off. Every day he gets older I think he looks more and more like Al, though I think he has Dad’s ears! Dad has made a point of marking September the 1st, 2045 in the calendar, so he’s prepared for having another of us at Hogwarts. It was enough of a challenge when he was just a teacher, but I’m sure you know Professor McGonagall is planning to retire either next year or the one after, and she’s already told Dad that she’ll be submitting his name to the schoolboard. He was very flustered by it, but he could hardly say no, could he? Anyway I expect that means he’ll be Headmaster well before Frankie starts school, and won’t that be strange?_

_I hope you’ll be coming over for Christmas, it’ll be such a big gathering this year that we might have to portion off an area of the pub rather than holding it in the dining room at Mum and Dad’s..._

* * *

Neville came through the Floo from the Headmaster’s office to his own living room, hundreds of miles away in London above the Leaky Cauldron. He rarely spent nights away from the school these days during term, but he had promised his wife that he would let her look after him on the weekend, just this once.

“There you are.” Hannah came up to him and put her arms around his neck. “How are you?”

He squeezed her gently around her plump waist. “It’s been a long week, but I’m all right. I saw Frankie today. Gave him the ring.”

“Oh, you did?” she smiled. “That’s nice. And a very unsubtle way of getting him to do research on Augusta’s family.”

He made an innocent face. “Would I do that?”

She scoffed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Neville, we’ve been married nearly fifty years. I can see through you like a window.”

“Whew. Has it really been that long?”

“Don’t change the subject. You can’t trick your fourteen year old grandson into being your research assistant.”

“I can if it’s his own idea.” He sighed. “Hannah, I know so little about her, really. The woman raised me and I barely knew her.” He drew the packet of letters out of his pocket.

“You read them?”

“Most of them. There are things in there… I just had no idea. I never asked. I never even _thought_ to ask. And now…” He swallowed; the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, and he put a hand over his face.

“Oh, love. Come to bed.”

He let her lead him into the bedroom and draw him down into her arms.

“I was actually starting to think she might outlive us both, as well,” she said later, stroking her hand through his hair as he lay beside her, his robes lying abandoned on the floor beside the bed. He could breathe again. “I’m sure she tried, just to be irritating. But perhaps she thought you were finally ready to look after yourself.”

“She knew I have you to take care of me,” Neville smiled.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it.” He leaned over and traced the side of her cheek with his fingers. To him, she was as beautiful now as she had been at twenty, perhaps more, because he could see the faces of his son and daughters, and their grandchildren, reflected in her face. She was a loving, affectionate grandmother, which made the contrast to his own childhood even more stark. He thought he might have let that get to him since Frankie was born. He’d let a distance grow between him and his Gran, once he knew how different it could have been. He regretted it now, of course, but there was nothing to be done. He still loved her as much as he always had; he could only hope she knew that now, wherever she was.

“I have something for you, too,” he said. “I think she would have liked you to have it.” He reached over the bed into the pocket of his robes and rolled back over, slipping the small object into her hand.

She gasped. “Oh, Neville…”

It was a silver brooch in the shape of a dove. Smooth, and simple, with no engravings or ornamentation, except for the eyes, which were diamonds.

“Was this hers?”

“Must have been. I don’t remember her wearing it, but it must have meant something, to be in the box with the other things.”

Hannah turned it over in her fingers. “It’s beautiful. I forgot that she loved birds.”

“She did?”

Hannah frowned at him. “ _Neville_. Come on, you knew that.”

“I mean, I know she liked vultures…”

“Neville, no one just likes vultures. She had lots of other hats, you know, and cloaks with feather collars, and things, and your old house was full of bird paintings. You must have noticed.”

“But I asked her for an owl a million times when I was a kid. Well, twice - I never asked for anything more than twice. She always said they were dirty and made a mess.”

“Well, they do. Remember Friendly? I swear that bird used to poop in my clean laundry baskets on purpose.”

“Well, he was my best friend for two years until you moved in. He was testing you.”

“He wasn’t exactly living up to his name, was he? Anyway, you see my point, and you know, you weren’t the healthiest little boy. She was probably just trying to protect you.”

Neville rolled onto his back and thought about this for a while, staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose you’re right.”

She put the brooch on the side table and leaned over to kiss him. “Of course I’m right.”

He lay awake long after she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. His mind was still too busy for sleep. The funeral was tomorrow and he was yet to choose a design for the headstone. Members of old wizarding families, especially the elderly, tended to get large, ostentatious ones, if there was no mausoleum. A vulture would have definitely been too morbid (although, he thought privately, a very Augusta thing to do), but maybe a dove…

 _Would you like that, Gran?_ he asked, watching the shadows from the gap in the curtain play across the ceiling.

 _What a bit of silliness_ , he heard her say, the same way she had said it a hundred times. His Gran had never been in favour of anything silly.

 _Just this once?_ he thought, smiling to himself. There was no reply, which he could only imagine to be a good thing. It would be just like her to come back as a ghost, to hover over his shoulder for the rest of eternity; no need to encourage her. She had more than earned a long, long rest.

 _Goodnight, Gran_ , he whispered instead in his mind, and closed his eyes at last. 

* * *

_AUGUSTA ELIZABETH LONGBOTTOM_

_NEE LUNDEN_

_1929-2049_

_BELOVED MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER,_ _  
_ _GREAT-GRANDMOTHER, GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER._

_LIBERUM VOLARE_


End file.
